


You Shall Go To The Ball

by Liadt



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Valentine's Day, panto mania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed finds a statuesque beauty.</p><p>Emma acts as a fairy Godmother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Shall Go To The Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely lost_spook for the beta & who wanted a Valentine's Day fic with Steed and Mrs Peel:)

John Steed was wandering around an art exhibition inside a huge neo-classical building. It was Valentine’s Day and he was on his own. Steed wasn’t letting this situation depress him, even though he had a hamper full of champagne, caviar and strawberries at home he had hoped to share with a special someone. Instead, Steed was paying a visit to a collection, grouped together under the title: _The Unquenchable Spirit of Womanhood_. Thankfully, the art on display was better than the title. Amongst the exhibits, the highlights were an original portrait of Elizabeth I by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger, several sensuous representations of Venus (with and without giant clamshell), a modern sculpture of Boudicca that appeared to be made out of three metal coat hangers twisted together, and a lifelike statue of Britannia. 

A very lifelike statue. 

If the model hadn’t been so pleasing to the eye, Steed might have carried on through the gallery without noticing anything amiss. Positioning himself in front of a photograph of the aviatrix, Amelia Earhart, Steed gathered his thoughts. Had he imagined the statue blinking? Did he really see a flash of pale blue eyes, that could turn a strong face into a stunning one? He was sure he had seen those eyes somewhere before on his travels. It was a pity he couldn’t see Britannia’s legs, under the folds of her voluminous dress, to give his mind the final clue to solve the mystery. Steed glanced at his wristwatch - the gallery closed in a couple of hours. As well as the exhibition, the building he was in had a rather charming tearoom, which would make a pleasant hiding place until closing time.

****

Britannia wasn’t the only one who could hide in plain sight. Loitering in the deserted gallery, Steed did his best impersonation of Rene Magritte’s _The Son of Man_. Over the bright green apple he held in front of his face, he saw Britannia come to life. Jumping off her plinth with ease, she laid down her trident and shield and took off her helmet to reveal blonde locks. It was the glimpse of her calf that did it for Steed. He placed his apple down next to a model of Eve and crossed over to the living statue. 

“Cynthia Wentworth-Howe! What are you doing here? Have you had a change of career? This isn’t the kind of activity I’d expect from a Top Hush secretary,” exclaimed a jovial Steed.

Cynthia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, Steed! I didn’t see you there. I wouldn’t normally tell anyone what I was doing, you understand, but as it’s you, I’ve been promoted from Top Hush.”

“You made it to Button Lip, congratulations,” said Steed, warmly.

“Not quite - I’m Zipped Up now. It’s a department that runs parallel to Button Lip. As you’ve observed we also work outside the office.”

“I’ve found zips are more mobile than a button, but why the fancy dress?”

“As part of my work in Zipped Up, I have to make sure no information from top secret files from my department passes anyone’s lips. This is a popular place for spies to meet their opposite number from the other side. By donning this disguise visitors are unaware their conversations are being monitored.”

“Any transgressions?”

“None, so far, but there’s a heated debate between the CIA man and the GRU operative over what’s the best bread to feed ducks with.”

“Where are you going now?” asked Steed.

“As I’ve nothing to report, I’m going home for a bath and a good book.”

“Aren’t you going out for Valentine’s?”

“I’m afraid I’ve no-one to go out with. I’d like to meet a fellow fly-fisher, but it’s hard when you live in the middle of the city and it’s a little late in the day to secure a partner. I know it’s old fashioned, but I wish I could’ve have gone to a debutante ball when I was younger. The ones that were held in the country pile I grew up in were terribly glamorous.”

“Why didn’t you?” Steed couldn’t imagine why a woman of her quality would be excluded from a coming out ball.

Cynthia gave a sad smile. “I was the chauffeur’s daughter. I may have won scholarships to the best schools, but it didn’t allow me to join in with my titled classmates.”

“Well, Cinderella, tonight you shall go to the ball,” said Steed, expansively. “I have two tickets to a Lover’s Ball, out in the countryside. Hopefully, the Lord of the flies will sweep you off your feet there. I was going to take Mrs Peel, but unfortunately, she’s been detained in France sorting out an export issue for Knight Industries. I’m sure she won’t mind me acting as your chaperone for the night.”

“Thank you, Steed. If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like to go home and change - stonewash isn’t the “in” thing for balls.”

“Of course not,” replied Steed.

****

Steed parked his Bentley at the bottom of the driveway of Ffrington Hall. Steed and Cynthia had quite a long walk ahead of them up to the Georgian manor where the party was being held. They couldn’t get near the house, because there were no spaces in front of the hall to park in. The motors they passed were from the luxury end of the market like Rolls Royce’s, Bentleys and Italian sports cars. There were a few cars for the less wealthy, incongruously parked alongside the Ferraris. 

“It should be an interesting night where the humble Morris Minor rubs shoulders with a Maserati,” observed Steed.

“Yes, it should be,” agreed Cynthia.

On entering the mansion, they didn’t have much time to admire the entrance hall’s Greek statues, as they were speedily ushered into a small side room, which was being used as the cloakroom. In there two burly men in tweed suits helped to divest them of their outer garments and send them back into the hall.

“There were rather rough, weren’t they?” said Cynthia, rubbing her arm.

“I’d say they would be best employed in a security role than in service. I’d wager it’s their first night on hatcheck duty. Although, as you’re Cinderella, I suspect they’re the ugly sisters in disguise. Are you still wearing the same shoes you came in with?” asked Steed. “Ah, this is what I expected from the invitation,” he added, as they went into the grand ballroom.

The grand ballroom was decorated with suitably romantic motifs of pink hearts and cherubs, hanging down from the ceiling, with lengths of pink satin stretched between each one. At the far end, a nine piece band played a waltz. Waiters weaved their way between guests, carrying trays of canapés and drinks. Steed secured two champagne flutes and passed one to Cynthia.

“Do you want me to act as your chaperone or would you prefer to strike out on your own?” enquired Steed.

“If you don’t mind, Steed, I’ve seen an old childhood friend, Jeremy Thrupp, over in the corner. I would like to go and catch up with him.”

“Very well, I shall leave you to swap stories and see if I can add Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and Alice Fitzwarren to my list of Princesses tonight.”

“I don’t know if they’re here, but your fairy Godmother has sent you Widow Twanky and Mother Goose.” Cynthia inclined her head towards two ladies making a beeline for Steed. They had reached the age where they found it impossible to pass a man without squeezing his cheeks. Steed didn’t try to flee; he’d met enough formidable old ladies to know resistance was futile.

****

An hour later, Cynthia found her way back to Steed. 

“How did your reunion go?” asked Steed.

“It didn’t go at all. First, Jeremy blanked me and then said he’d forgotten me. When I asked him how his estate was faring he got the simplest details about his land wrong and I never forget a statistic. I thought his memory had been clouded by illness - his face was very stiff, as if he’d suffered a palsy. When I tactfully enquired if he’d been sick, he pushed past me muttering that he had to make sure he married the right woman. I wonder what happened to him? He used to be such an easy going chap,” said Cynthia, sadly.

“There seems to be an epidemic of facial paralysis. My two dames were telling me a similar story about the younger set. They blamed it on the parents. I think there’s something other than love and romance going on here and it might have something to do with the Uglies. Would you be able to lend me a helping hand?”

****

In the end, Cynthia didn’t lend a helping hand, she used an ornament instead. In the cloakroom, Steed effortlessly dispatched one of the bulky men with a blow from his hand to the back of the neck, while Cynthia employed a tall vase to send the other man to an early bedtime. After hiding the unconscious heavies under a pile of coats, Steed retrieved his bowler hat and slipped out of the back of the cloakroom into a long, white corridor.

“What do we do now?” said Cynthia, looking down the corridor.

“Search the building for clues to why there’s been a breakout of party palsy,” answered Steed.

Steed and Cynthia went through the rooms of the stately home together. Half the rooms were empty of even one stick of furniture and, away from the dance floor, spookily quiet. As they were walking along a picture gallery on the first floor, Steed halted and held a finger to his lips. He could hear voices and so could Cynthia. They crept up to the door from where the voices emanated from and paused. Steed took hold of Cynthia’s hand and burst through the door in to a generously proportioned room. 

“I don’t think your husband will disturb us in here, sweetheart,” said Steed, loudly. 

In the room, the two people who had been talking fell silent. One was a tall man, in a grey suit, with swept back grey hair and an aquiline nose and the other was a woman in a pink satin ball gown. She had an elfin face and honey coloured hair, piled high on her head. They weren’t alone: several men in tweed suits at the far side of the room were moving bulky packing cases, whilst on the floor were sat a dozen men and women in their underclothes. To add to their predicament they were also gagged and bound hand and foot.

All eyes turned to the newcomers.

“Is this a private party or can anyone join? I’m very good at knots - I earned a merit badge for my woodland skills in the Scouts,” said Steed, breezily, making the Scout’s salute with his fingers.

The men in tweed started to inch towards the intruding pair.

“As you’re here, I guess you’ll have to join the others,” said the bald man, coldly. He clicked his fingers and pointed at Steed. The henchmen then launched themselves at Steed and Cynthia. Cynthia did her best to fight off the men, but her martial arts didn’t go beyond giving Chinese burns to under-secretaries who tried to access restricted files. She soon found herself tied up and thrown to the floor. Steed managed to knock a few of the men out before he was too was overpowered and restrained.

Now the men had moved away from the packing cases, Steed saw on top of one of the boxes an array of aerosol cans in various flesh coloured tones, a big make-up box and a freestanding dressing-table mirror.

The woman in the satin dress came up to Steed, carrying a clipboard and pen. “What’s your name?”

“Steed, John Steed. If I had known how strictly you enforced the guest list I would have asked for a hand stamp. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Mrs Levert and this is my business partner, Mr Kirby.” Levert pointed her pen at the man in the grey suit. She flicked through the papers held by the clipboard. “Hmm, John Steed, a wealthy man, but we have filled our quota of rich males - and your friend?”

“I’m Miss Cynthia Wentworth-Howe. I came at Steed’s invitation - I won’t be on the list.”

“Ah.” Mrs Levert stopped scanning her papers. “What’s your position in life?”

“I’m a secretary.”

Mrs Levert shook her head. “I’m afraid neither of you are worth keeping. If you were of any use we would have put you in a packing case like the rest, but we’ll have to store you at the bottom of Ffrington Hall’s lake.”

“A bath sounds over zealous - we’re only a little dishevelled,” said Steed.

Mrs Levert gave a thin smile. “As you won’t be telling anyone anything ever again, I might as well explain what you’ve witnessed. I don’t know how enamoured you are with one another, but you may have recognised some of your fellow prisoners from the party.”

Cynthia looked around. “Jeremy Thrupp!”

Jeremy mumbled something through his gag that could have been a greeting.

“Your-” Cynthia hesitated when she spoke to him. “Your skin looks different from the way it was when I saw you downstairs.”

“Correct, Miss Wentworth-Howe, his skin _is_ different or to be scrupulously accurate the man you mistook for Thrupp has different skin. The aerosol cans contain a special kind of liquid skin. A thin layer of Vaseline is applied to a guest’s face, to protect it, before a couple of squirts of liquid skin is sprayed on. The latex dries to make a perfect copy. This mask is peeled off and applied to the face of the person chosen to take the place of the guest, as their doppelganger. They then put on the genuine Lord or Lady’s clothes and go back to the ball, leaving no-one any the wiser.”

“Why though?” asked Cynthia.

“It’s Valentine’s Day - the perfect time for singles to find true love,” explained Mr Kirby. “Mrs Levert and I organise balls for the cream of society, with the aim of encouraging romantic attachments. We have a list of notables we send invitations to. However, we take pity on a few less fortunate souls who enquire about tickets, despite not fulfilling our criteria. Having been poor ourselves, we include these applicants and help them to fill the void in their lives. The void caused by a lack of riches. We seek out a prospective partner for them, with a generous bank balance, on the proviso once they are married they pay our fee. No match, no money - a fair service, don’t you think? Love can be a complex dance, so we simplify the process. Our stand-ins take the place of the hard to please monied partner and by doing so takes the stress out of securing a marriage proposal. After the marriage has taken place the double leaves and the real Right Honourable is returned.”

“Won’t that cause trouble in the marital home? I went out with twins once. Not deliberately - I thought they were the same girl. Never again,” interjected Steed.

Mrs Levert smirked. “We’ve smoothed over that situation as well. The wealthy spouse is sent back dead, killed by an untraceable poison. When the will is read, we collect our fee from the merry widow or widower. And so now you know our secrets we’ll have to kill you.”

Mr Kirby had gone to the make-up case, taken out a syringe, and filled it with a clear liquid from a tiny bottle. He had a flat, dead look in his eyes. “You won’t feel a thing,” he said as he crossed over to Steed. “One little injection and you’ll have a pain free death. How many of us will have that luxury?”

A chill ran down Steed’s spine, as Mr Kirby rolled up Steed’s shirtsleeve and twisted his elbow round. Mr Kirby squinted at Steed’s arm searching for a vein. Suddenly, the door opened and four men and a woman trouped in. Mr Kirby scowled irritably at the intruders and paused. 

“Mrs Peel!” exclaimed Steed, brightly.

“Is this a private party?” enquired Emma Peel, who had opened the door.

“I’ve already made that joke,” Steed told her.

Emma looked at the bound captives. “I have a Girl Guides badge for tying knots…”

“I’ve used that gag too,” added Steed.

“Really? You’ll have to tell me the story of how you acquired your badge from the Guides,” said Emma.

“It was the Scouts - same difference.”

“Shame, I had visions of you in pigtails.”

“Enough! Seize them!” shouted Mrs Levert, angrily.

For the second time that night, Kirby and Levert’s hired heavies advanced on unexpected guests. Along with Emma there were two men dressed in chauffeur’s outfits, a smartly dressed man in a well cut suit and a man in a wax jacket wearing a shapeless tweed hat. Steed relaxed and leaned against the wall as he watched the fight. Cynthia might look the part of a warrior woman, but Mrs Peel was the real thing. To his mind, there was nothing more graceful than Mrs Peel defeating an opponent with a karate chop. Steed was so busy admiring Emma’s moves he didn’t see Mr Kirby sneaking away.

Cynthia did. “Quick, Kirby’s trying to escape!”

Mr Kirby made a dash for the door. He never made it. Steed stuck his legs out and tripped him up. Kirby sprawled in front of a young woman, who despite her lack of clothes, had a regal bearing. She curled her lip in distaste and head butted Mr Kirby out cold. One of the chauffeurs grabbed Mrs Levert as she too tried to leave. After defeating the diabolical mastermind’s minions, Emma’s accomplices set about untying the prisoners. 

The man in the wax jacket undid the rope circling Cynthia’s ankles. She winced. “Don’t worry, your ankles will be fine once the blood circulates,” the man said and rubbed her leg to help the blood flow.

Tears pricked Cynthia’s eyes as she withdrew her foot. “I twisted my ankle when I tried to fight off the guards,” she said in the stiff tones of someone trying to keep their emotions out of their voice.

“I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Take my arm and I’ll support you. I’m Perkins, the gamekeeper by the way.” Perkins was a kindly sort and he could never resist a damsel in distress, especially not a beautiful one. Cynthia too was smitten. Others would have been struck by his chiselled jaw, lightly tanned skin dusted with freckles, the way his fringe flopped attractively over his eyes with their long lashes, or how easily he lifted up Cynthia with his strong, muscular arms, but Cynthia wasn’t as shallow as that. What made her eyes light up were the fly-fishing lures hooked in his shapeless hat.

“Red coachmen!” Cynthia said, with excitement.

Perkins put his free hand to his head. “You fish?”

Cynthia nodded. “They’re my favourite fly.”

Perkins smiled at her. “They’re mine too.”

Steed was soon back on his feet as well. “Mrs Peel, how did you find us? I thought you were in France.”

“I was. However, I arrived home earlier than expected and I found you’d left a card on my doormat about the ball. I was going to have an early night, but I knew I couldn’t leave you without anyone to protect you from the advances of old ladies.”

“You’re quite right - I was cornered by a pair in your absence. How come you didn’t stay in the ballroom?”

“As I walked up to the entrance, I overheard a chauffeur and gamekeeper chatting. The gamekeeper was saying he used to work for Lord Stocksbridge, who had a pronounced limp in his left leg. Yet when he’d seen him on the veranda, he was limping on his right foot. The chauffeur said he’d seen an old flame of his boss who, he was convinced, had grown a couple of inches. Then Sir Gerald Perace came out for a smoke and commented he’d bumped into his fiancée and she acted as if he was a stranger. Sir Gerald put this down to them both coming separately without the knowledge of the other. I introduced myself and explained I had experience with strange goings on and if we searched behind the scenes we would find an answer,” said Emma.

“Which you did! And you arrived in time for the last dance too.” Steed looked at his watch. “Although as the clock hasn’t struck twelve, your clothes shouldn’t have turned into rags yet.” In the fight, Emma’s dress had been torn.

“Steed’s been referring to characters from pantomimes all night,” said Cynthia, helpfully, noticing Emma’s puzzled expression.

“It’s February, Steed, panto is over until December,” said Emma, gently.

“Oh no, it isn’t,” protested Steed.

Emma groaned. 

“I’ve a sewing kit I carry around with me in my handbag, if you want to borrow it,” offered Cynthia. “When it’s slow at work, I keep myself occupied by adjusting the hemlines of skirts I’ve bought. Because I’m tall, mini-skirts are micro on me and I wouldn’t be able to stay Zipped Up in them.” 

“No, of course, you wouldn‘t,” replied Emma, thinking of the garter around Cynthia’s leg that held her keys. Emma also thought Steed would be thinking of Cynthia’s novel storage solution at this moment. “However, I think the ladies in here are in greater need of your sewing kit.”

The freed male guests had relieved their former captors of their suits, with varying degrees of success in their fit, but the women were in their underwear eyeing up Mrs Levert’s pink dress, as she was being tied up by Sir Gerald.

“The curtains aren’t too shabby,” said Emma. “If no one minds having a matching outfit.”

The women agreed they could stand to be similarly arrayed and they’d be able to get their own gowns off their impostors soon anyway. Perkins helped to steer the limping Cynthia to a packing case to perch on and pulled the drapes off the windows. 

“Looks like you’ve lost Cinderella to Prince Charming again, Buttons,” said Emma to Steed.

Cynthia and Perkins were gazing so intently into each other’s eyes, it was a wonder Perkins didn’t trip up and Cynthia’s sewing wouldn’t be as neat as usual.

“I was never particularly fond of Cinderella. I prefer a dame orientated panto,” said Steed.

“So that’s why your Sheriff of Nottingham fancy dress was a flop - you wanted to be Nurse all along. Are you sure you _weren’t_ in the Girl Guides?”

“I did play Charley’s Aunt in _Charley’s Aunt_ in the upper sixth,” confessed Steed. “For years afterwards I received calls to reprise the role. I rejected them all, even from the West End”

“The West End?” Emma was impressed and surprised Steed turned down the chance to see his name in lights.

“I passed the role on to my Great Aunt Clara - nobody noticed. The run was a great success; it must be something in the genes. Clara lasted three hundred and thirty-three consecutive performances, until her wolfhound fell ill and she felt she couldn’t carry on. Ivor Novello was said to be inconsolable when she left.”

Mrs Peel raised an eyebrow.

“But enough of the business of show, I was going to muse on the tragedy of my bachelorhood, in my flat tonight, as you were away. In the end I decided to save Miss Wentworth-Howe from the same fate by acting as her chaperone.”

“In which you have singularly failed to protect an innocent girl from a predatory male.”

“Don’t worry she may appear to be defenceless, but she’s really Britannia.”

“Really?” said Emma, giving Steed a look that suggested she thought he was being silly.

“Really,” said Steed, smugly.

Emma deduced there was a story she’d uncover later.

“And now our tale is done, will you accompany me back to the dance? I’ve only had two glasses of champagne and I’ll turn into a pumpkin if I don’t have another.”

Emma put her arm through the one Steed proffered to her. “It’s worse than that boys and girls - I’ve had none.”

“Don’t worry; I have a hamper full at home if our fellow guests have drained the ballroom dry.”

“I didn’t think I was allowed to leave with the Prince after Midnight.”

“Think of it as a modern interpretation.”

Emma laughed and they went off to enjoy what was left of the night. 

****

The End.


End file.
